Thursday, July 20, 2017

Revisiting Old Words

I recently had occasion to revisit something I wrote a few years back. I had read the Remittance Girl piece that inspired it just before boarding a plane, composed the response in my head at 30,000 feet, and word-vomited it onto my blog shortly after checking into my hotel, without benefit of reflection or revision. I think it stands up well, but of course all words benefit from edits. Here's the version I wish I'd posted then. It's tighter than the original, having shed about 30 words, and, I think, stronger. I hope you enjoy.

You think you know me, baby? Even before the door is shut and clothes come off, you have me sliced, diced, and sorted into your tidy categories. Man. Dick. Wanker.

That’s fine. Don your sex-kitten armor. Unroll it over your desire like a condom. I’ll enjoy your body and move on. Even soft-serve, dipped in chocolate to mask the vanilla, satisfies on a hot summer afternoon. Fuck you very much.

But don’t think I don’t notice the calm settle over you when my rope embraces your curves. Giving up control centers you, doesn’t it, baby? Quiets the voices in your head? I hear the mewl escape your lips when my clamp bites your nipple, see you squirm when I grab a fistful of hair and bend you over the sideboard, feel you press back against me as my lubed fingers invade your ass. Pain tolerance is harder to fake than an orgasm, baby. You have a taste for kink. The dark side whispers your name, and makes you wet.

I don’t pretend to know all that makes you tick. I barely know your name. But I already have trail markers to guide me as I set out for the edge of your comfort zone, seeking your buttons to push and knobs to twist, the ones that transform coupling by numbers into exquisite mindfuck. All I want, baby, is everything you have to give. And you don’t know Jack.